An Eye For An Eye
by RooC
Summary: Justice and revenge. A day in the life of Officer Bud White - set after the events at the Night Owl but before the rest of the film/book. Movieverse


"An Eye For An Eye"

Bud poured himself a glass of cool water and stood by the window in his apartment, watching the night settle onto the city below...

It was almost twilight and the sun was settling low on the horizon, it's last rays illuminating the windows of tall buildings and making them look as if they were on fire. What was happening to the city, Los Angeles, _his_ city? He'd been born and raised here, and even in his short lifetime, it seemed that things had slowly, steadily been getting worse. The civil servants of this town weren't doing their jobs and the streets were full of trash, human and otherwise. Even the air was dirty now, and scientists were predicting that the smog would settle like a shroud over LA before the end of the century. Bud wondered if he'd be around to see it.

Through the open window came the smell of someone cooking liver and onions. Music drifted up from the street below, a man singing along with Dean Martin on a car radio. Through the thin walls that separated his apartment from the next, he could hear the rhythmic cries of his neighbor Sal and her latest paramour going at it hot and heavy. Her cries became more frequent and insistent and, feeling like a voyeur in his own home, Bud gulped down the last of his drink, grabbed his jacket and left them to their pleasures.

Out on the street, the heat felt like a slap in the face. Eight o'clock and it still had to be almost 85 degrees. Walking to where his car was parked by the curb was like swimming through warm sewer water.

Bud loosened his tie as he got behind the wheel, checked the rear view and pulled out fast, hoping to create enough of a breeze through the open window that he'd cool off and be able to think. He needed a plan, somewhere to go, something to do.

A week ago he would've called Stens to meet him for a drink or maybe even bowl a few frames, but Dick Stensland was dead. There'd be no more nights spent in bars tossing back a few too many and flirting with the cocktail waitress for Stens. No more bowling, no more late night stops in greasy spoons to grab one last grilled cheese and black coffee before calling it a night.

Stens had been his partner for four years and was the closest he'd ever come to having a friend. Now someone had put a bullet into Dick Stensland, and, if Bud ever found out who, that person or persons would pay. He owed Stensland that much, maybe more.

An hour of driving, slow cruising like a prowl car, down one street, up the next, doubling back to eye a bum sleeping one off propped up against a mailbox on the corner. Bud realized that his mood hadn't improved any. Something was boiling inside him, just below the surface, and he knew himself well enough to know that if it surfaced, it wouldn't be pretty.

Thinking about Dick Stensland's killer skating around free as a bird made him angry. Angry in a way he usually associated with thoughts of his father...

His father was a murdering son of a bitch, and like too many who came both before and after him, he had gotten away with it. In the end, that was the worst part.

The last time Bud had seen his father was the day the old man had taken a lead pipe to both him and his mother. He'd tied Bud to a radiator, battered the boy and then beaten his own wife to death, leaving both of them for dead.

If he'd been smart, he would've finished the job.

The police had never been able to find Wendell, Sr. and by the time Bud had been old enough to go looking for him, the trail was as cold and as the cheap headstone on his mother's grave.

Bud had never been able to find his father, had never found a way to exact justice or make him pay for what he had done. He joined the police force the day he got out of the orphanage and found not only a home but also ways to make men like his father pay.

And pay they did.

Bud made them pay in the one currency he knew they understood; pain and suffering, broken bones and shattered teeth. The solid feel of his fists meeting and beating righteousness out of the flesh of the guilty always made him feel better. And with whatever justice he could exact from the low-life class of shitbirds and wife beaters unlucky enough to cross Bud's path paid up, he found that his nightmares became less frequent and that he could sleep at night.

Tonight, Bud White was looking for a fight.

He glanced at his watch and realized that he had been criss-crossing the same neighborhoods between Hollywood and Sunset for the better part of an hour. His stomach growled out a warning and he figured it was time to eat. Spotting a drive-in up ahead on Cahuenga, he pulled in and parked. A carhop on roller-skates took his order.

"Cheeseburger," he said, handing back the menu without looking at it.

"What do you want on that?" She asked, smiling her best professional smile.

"Doesn't matter." Bud barely glanced at her.

"Do you want fries?"

"Sure."

"Something to drink?" she prompted helpfully. "A coke maybe?"

"Sure," he nodded.

"What kind?"

"What?" Bud glanced out the car window at her, registered an upturned nose dusted with freckles, brown eyes, and a nametag that read "Sherry" pinned above her left breast.

"What kind of coke, mister?" Sherry blinked at him in a way that suggested that she had other, better things she'd rather be doing. "We have cherry, vanilla, chocolate and plain."

"Plain will be fine."

"Anything else?"

Bud shook his head absently, his attention drawn to a souped up late model Ford that was pulling in a few spaces away. Maybe it was the loud hillbilly music on their radio or maybe it was the throaty growl of the muffler that got his attention. Or maybe it was something else, call it cop instincts.

Whatever it was, it made him angle his rear view mirror to get a better look at the car's occupants, two white males in their mid twenties with greasy hair and leather jackets. Street hoods. He knew the type. Self styled rough boys and bullies who were generally more talk than tough once someone bigger and tougher put the screws to them.

He watched as the girl glided away to place his order at a small window on the kitchen side of the building. That done, she skated over to the new arrivals in the Ford. Bud saw her cross her arms across her breasts and back up defensively as the Ford's driver made a comment she apparently didn't like. The passenger brayed laughter as she skated away to place their order and pick up his coke.

"Here you go." She set the coke on a tray she attached to the window frame of Bud's car. "The rest of your order will be up in a minute."

"You okay, miss?" Bud asked, looking at her, _really_ looking at her for the first time.

She was young, about sixteen, just a high school kid. This was probably her first job.

"Yeah, sure..." After his earlier indifference, his inquiry surprised her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It just looked like maybe those boys in the Ford were giving you a rough time is all." He watched her eyes narrow as she unconsciously glanced towards the car in question.

"They're just dumb guys who think it's funny to be rude." The girl shrugged.

"Assholes."

Bud noticed that she looked a little shocked at her own bravado as she said the word. The look on her face almost made him smile. "I guess you probably get a lot of assholes in here this time of night."

"Too many." She favored him with a smile. It was a real smile this time, not her

work smile.

"Anybody ever teach you how to handle assholes who get out of line, Sherry?"

"What?" She looked surprised when he used her name, then her hand came up reflexively and touched her name tag. "Oh, my name isn't Sherry, it's Carol. Carol Johnson." She grinned as she confided, "They dock you a quarter if they catch you without your name tag on, but I lost mine and anyway, they never look to see whose you're wearing."

"So what's their policy on assholes who pay unwanted attention to the help, Carol?" Bud persisted.

"If anyone gets out of hand I can always call Ernie out from the kitchen," Carol explained, rolling the wheels of her skates back and forth on the pavement as she spoke. "If they're lucky, he'll bust their taillights. If they're not, he'll make them eat today's special," she giggled.

"Good thing I didn't order the special, huh?" Bud gave her one of his rare smiles. She seemed like a good kid, spunky for her age.

"I wouldn't have let you," Carol grinned back, then jumped to attention as the boys in the Ford began to toot their horn impatiently. "Gotta go. I'll be back in a minute with your food, mister."

She skated off towards the Ford, spoke briefly to the two hoods, then rolled to the pickup window to get their drinks.

The parking area was fairly well lit and it was easy for Bud to see what came next.

As Carol leaned forward to attach the tray to the side of the Ford, the driver's hand snuck out and tried to slip inside the top of her blouse. The girl pulled away as best she could, but he had a good grip on her breast and two things happened simultaneously; one, her blouse tore and two, the tray detached from the car, splashing drinks in all directions.

"You stupid bitch!" The guy in the car let go of her and she fell to the ground as he jumped out of the car, swiping frantically at the milkshake that was dripping down the front of his leather.

From inside the car his friend emitted a fresh series of horsy laughs. "Shut up!" the driver snapped and rounded on Carol. "Look what you did to my new jacket," he screamed at the girl cowering on the ground, trying to hold her torn blouse closed with one hand and get up with the other. "You stupid fucking bitch! You're gonna-"

Bud's vision narrowed like a long gray tunnel lit by a red torch. He didn't remember getting out of his car, but a moment later, he had the punk's face pressed into the pavement beside the Ford. The passenger's laughter choked off and the silence from inside the car was sudden and almost deafening. "She's not gonna do anything, you greasy little prick."

He glanced to Carol who had managed to get up but was unsteady on her skates. "You okay?"

"I... I guess so," she stammered uncertainly.

"Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head. "He grabbed my..." Her cheeks turned red with embarrassment and she stopped. "He tore my uniform."

Bud reached into the punk's pocket and tore out his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out a five and two ones and handed it to the girl. "Will this cover it?"

"Hey man," the kid on the ground still had enough courage to complain. "You can't take my money."

"Shut the fuck up, dirtbag." Bud ground the kid's face into the gravel. "Now, apologize to the lady."

"Fuck you!"

"Carol," Bud said evenly, "go inside and tell Ernie to call the cops. Tell them Officer White says -"

"Okay, okay-"The kid on the ground spit gravel. "I'm fucking sorry, all right?"

"Not good enough." He pressed the punk's arm a little higher across his back. Just another couple of inches and it would either dislocate or break. Either way, it was going to hurt. "Want to try again? Without the profanity this time," he prompted, leaning into his grip a little and making the kid sweat.

"I'm sorry." The kid was in serious pain now and the words were barely understandable between his clenched teeth.

"Much better." Bud loosened his hold on the guy's arm, but didn't let him up. "Go inside and tell them you're done for the night. Call someone to take you home."

"I'll be okay." The girl backed away on her skates. "Thanks, mister..."

"_Officer _White." Bud reached into his jacket with his free hand and pulled out his memo book. He quickly scrawled his name and the number for the Central Division Detective Bureau on a sheet which he tore out and handed to her. "You have any more trouble, you call and ask for me."

She tucked the paper into the pocket of her Capri pants and nodded, still looking a little shell-shocked as she skated into the diner. He waited until she was safely inside, then stood up and released the punk. Bud pawed through the kid's wallet until he found what he wanted. Driver's license. He read it over carefully, folded the paper and put it into his own pocket, then tossed the billfold into the car.

Bud crossed his arms across his wide chest, watching the kid brush gravel and milkshake from his jacket and glare at him all at the same time. A second later he shook his head, yanked open the door to the Ford, pushed the kid inside and leaned firmly on the door to close it.

"Okay, Frank Sutton, Jr., here's how this is going to work." Bud's tone was flat and dispassionate. "You're gonna leave here and, if you know what's good for you, you'll find somewhere else to eat from now on. I know who you are and where you live and if you ever bother that girl again, if you even so much as _look_ at her the wrong way, I'll find out about it, and I'll come for you. You got me?"

The kid in the car stared out the windshield, jaw set defiantly. "I could report you. I could get you fired."

"Yeah?" That almost made Bud laugh. Instead he leaned into the car and spoke softly. "Bigger men then you have tried. Most of them went missing even before the paperwork on their complaints did." He stood back and let the implication sink in. "Now, get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and decided to run you in for attempted rape."

The kid revved the motor and peeled out with a squeal, nearly stripping the gears as he tore off into the night, giving Bud a middle finger salute as he went.

The radio under the dashboard in Bud's car was crackling static as he got in and started the engine. "Six Adam seven, please respond..."

Bud picked up the palm-sized microphone and pressed the talk button. "This is six Adam seven."

The dispatcher's voice sounded tinny through the speaker but he recognized it as belonging to Sgt. "Mac" MacCready, one of Dudley Smith's inside men. "Bud, is that you?"

"Yeah," he answered simply.

"Jesus, where have you been? Capt. Smith has been looking for you. Surveillance Detail at the motel."

"Now?" Bud sighed into the mic. The Victory motel was all the way across town and he wanted to stick around and make sure the girl made it home safely.

"_Now_," Mac emphasized.

"On my way."

**WHUMP!**

Bud's brass girded knuckles slammed into the fleshy guts of Joey "the Fish" Fuccetti. The man had braced himself for the blow, which was a bad idea, since the tensed stomach muscles only made for a more solid hit and left him winded. The big man sputtered and gasped like a beached whale and Bud couldn't help wondering if this was how he'd earned his nickname.

"Are you ready to be a bit more forthcoming, Joseph?" Dudley Smith looked down the length of his aquiline nose at the gangster currently occupying the hot seat in room 5 of the Victory Motel. Not a nice place to be, just ask anyone who'd been there... if you could find them.

"Forthcoming? What the fuck?" Fuccetti wheezed as Bud circled around him like a caged cat. "I hearda the Second Coming, but-"

"Our sources indicate you have been making certain inquiries as to the current status of local organized criminal elements and their activities." Dudley prompted. "And that you have already attempted to establish a network to distribute outside narcotics..."

Bud tuned him out. The questions were always pretty much the same and besides, he wasn't there to listen. He was there to throw the fear of the Law into the fat little prick. Once that failed, his task was simple: beat him into cooperating.

The Captain gave him a subtle nod and Bud shot Joey a quick one-two to the midsection. Joey stayed bent forward for several seconds, retching and spitting. When he straightened up this time he did his best to stare Smith down.

"You're making a big mistake," Fuccetti spat on the floor. "The people I work for-"

"And who exactly would those people be, boyo? Would you care to elucidate?"

"Fuck you, Jack." Even as he spoke the words the mobster's lips quivered in anticipation with what he knew must be coming. Bud couldn't help wondering why guys like him always made things so hard on themselves. "Fuck you _and_ your ten cent vocabulary."

"Mr. Fuccetti is exhibiting an unprecedented amount of reticence, wouldn't you say, Wendell?" Dudley rubbed his chin looking for all the world like a kindly old teacher lost in thought. "Perhaps you could find it within yourself to convince him of the error of his ways?"

Crossing through Joey's line of vision, Bud removed his brass knuckles and picked up a tire iron from a bag on the floor. Capt. Smith made a subtle gesture of dismissal.

"Find a way to loosen his tongue, lad, perhaps something a bit more specific to the task at hand?"

Bud picked up a pair of pliers and Dudley gave him an approving nod.

Joseph proved to be a unexpectedly challenging subject, don't you agree?" Dudley mused as they stepped out onto the bungalow steps.

After the closeness of hot room, the night air seemed almost refreshing. "You were in fine and particularly fearsome form this evening, lad." His tone was more than approving, he sounded unmistakably _proud._

"Jesus H. Christ, White," Sgt. Vickers gave a low whistle of disgust from inside the room behind them. "You sure left one hell of a fucking mess in here."

"I'll thank you not to take our Savior's name in vain, Carl," Smith reproached as he stepped back into the rancid smelling bungalow. "Officer White's methods may have led to an unfortunate matter of waste disposal, but the results of our session were quite illuminating and Wendell's ferocious talents were notably useful as a means to that end. Now, let us discuss a course of action for the matter at hand..."

Bud turned away as Vickers dragged the mangled and unconscious body of Joey "The Fish" Fuccetti out to his car and heaved him into the back seat, then went back inside to confer with Dudley.

The mobster had talked all right, but it would be quite some time before he was able to do so again. By noon tomorrow Fuccetti would be on his way back to wherever he had come from, but he was returning home a broken man.

"No regrets, lad." Dudley Smith's large hand fell on Bud's shoulder and he nearly flinched. "Fuccetti and his kind are the worst form of filth, Wendell, narcotics pushers. We must send an unequivocal message to those that would seek to bring their poisons into the confines of our fair city that they will not be tolerated. Tonight, you have once again helped me to send that message loud and clear."

Smith smiled the peaceful smile of the righteous as he walked towards his own car.

"Take the day off, son, get some rest. You've earned it."

Bud got into his own car, started the engine and picked up the radio. "Six Adam seven to base..." He bounced the car out over the rutted dirt lane that would lead him back to the main road.

"That you, Bud?"

"Yeah, Mac. I'm 10-10 and headed home."

"Negative. Lt. Williams is looking for you. Proceed immediately to El Conte Middle School on North Ferndale in Hollywood."

Lt. Williams was Homicide, a tough old-school cop cut from the same cloth as Dudley. Though Williams lacked the political aspirations of Capt. Smith, he too, was not a man to be trifled with. "10-4," Bud sighed. "Tell him I'm on my way."

Bud arrived at El Conte Middle School just before dawn, parked on the street and headed for the cluster of uniformed officers huddled near the playground. Lt. Williams was watching for him and met him over by the swing-set, away from the crowd.

"What's this about, Lieutenant?"

"It's an ugly piece of business, Bud. Victim is a white female, 15 to 20 years old. We're having trouble making an ID and thought you might be able to assist." Lt. Williams pulled an unlit pipe from his pocket and filled it as they walked.

"Why me?" Bud wondered aloud. "What's the connection?"

"You tell me. Your name was on a slip of paper we found in her pocket."

Williams had slowly been moving him towards a small copse of trees at the edge of the basketball court. Bud recognized a man he knew from the coroner's office and then his stomach was doing a slow roll-over as he realized that what he'd at first taken to be a pile of rags was actually the broken body of the girl from the drive in.

"We thought maybe she was one of your special cases."

Bud stared at her for a long moment, wanting to look away from the beaten and bloody heap that had only a few short hours ago been the smiling, spunky girl at the diner. Instead, he forced himself to memorize every detail of the crime. "What happened?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Near as I can figure, she was dragged back here, beaten and then sexually violated," the Coroner spoke up. "There's evidence of severe blunt force trauma here and here..." He pointed to two caved in areas of her skull. "I'd hazard a guess that, given its extreme severity, this one was the fatal blow." He held up a blood stained roller-skate. "And here's our murder weapon."

Bud felt his gorge rising and forced himself to look away from the cloudy eyes that stared unseeingly at the dawn. He shut his own eyes and opened them a moment later to find Lt. Williams watching him.

"Her name is Carol Johnson," Bud told him. "A carhop at the Dipsy Doodle over on Cahuenga. She had some trouble with a couple of customers last night and I gave her my contact information in case they came back. She was supposedly headed home when I left the drive-in to meet Capt. Smith."

"She never made it home." Williams grimly stated the obvious. "What time did you leave the drive-in?" The lieutenant was making notes in a small leather bound book.

"I got the call from dispatch to meet Smith sometime around 10." Bud shoved his hands into his pockets so that Williams wouldn't see that they were balled into tight fists. He had to play it cool or he might not get the chance to do what needed to be done. "What a fucking waste. She seemed like a real nice kid."

He watched the Coroner's people load Carol Johnson's pale and lifeless body onto a stretcher. "Any leads on the animals who did this to her, Lieutenant?"

"Not unless you happened to get an ID on the customers you mentioned?" Williams asked hopefully. "The ones who were giving her a hard time at the drive-in?"

Bud's fingers found the folded paper license in his pocket. "Sorry, sir, I can't help you," he lied, and turned to move off in the direction of his car.

The lieutenant knew instinctively that White had something. He'd seen it in his eyes, had known it from the way his jaw had set as he turned to go.

Watching Bud stride off across the football field, Williams debated on how best to handle the situation. There wasn't a man on the force who didn't know Bud White's reputation for visiting brutal retribution on those who brought harm to women. Many secretly applauded his crusade and had been known to turn a blind eye to White's vigilante style of justice in such cases. Lt. Martin Williams was willing to be one of those men. Still, he had to follow some semblance of procedure or they'd both end up on the wrong side of an internal affairs investigation.

"Officer White!" His tone of voice stopped Bud in his tracks.

"Yes sir?" White turned to look at him and there was murder in his eyes.

"I have reason to believe that you are withholding evidence pertinent to this case. If I find out that you held out on me, I'll be forced to put it in my report." Williams softened his expression along with his tone. "For God's sake, Bud, you just got through that Bloody Christmas thing. If you've got information, don't be stupid, son. I'm sure we can work something out."

Bud hesitated uncertainly. His gut told him that Williams was a man who could be trusted, but the sick fucks who had brutalized the girl deserved Bud's own brand of law enforcement.

After a long moment, he pulled out Sutton's license and handed it to the lieutenant, watching through guarded eyes as the detective opened the paper and scanned the print.

"Frank Sutton, Jr., 2201 Yucca St.," the lieutenant read aloud. "That isn't far from here. I'll round up a few men for back-up and then head over to check things out."

He shot White a meaningful look as he pocketed the license. "I figure we'll probably get there in about fifteen minutes. It might not be a bad idea for you to meet us over there, White. Maybe you could make an identification."

"Yes sir. Understood. I'll meet you there." With that, Bud turned on his heel and sprinted for his car.

Yucca was a quiet street whose residents were mostly still asleep at this time of the morning, which was fine by Bud. The less interference the better.

He nosed his car to the curb across from 2201, a white stucco house showing signs of both age and neglect. The Ford from the drive-in was parked out front.

Pulling his .38 from the holster at the small of his back, Bud made his way stealthily to the rear of the property. As he moved through the back yard, a malnourished pit bull chained to a tree growled low in its throat. Bud took aim with his gun and the dog whined and retreated.

Up a small set of concrete stairs and he was using his pocketknife to defeat the flimsy lock on the back door. It didn't take much, just a small sharp push and he was inside.

Frank Sutton Jr. heard a sound and opened his eyes, which was definitely a mistake. He found himself staring into the cold hard eyes of Officer Bud White, inches from his own. The sound had been the cocking of the .38 that was pressed into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

White said three words: "You stupid fuck."

They were the last things Frank Sutton, Jr. heard before Bud White ended his miserable existence.

**"Sir,** I have an awfully hard time believing..."

Coming out of the house after making his statement, Bud heard the voice and knew instantly who he'd find talking to the Lieutenant. That persistent whine could only be one person: Edmund J. Exley, recently promoted to Homicide as a result of ratting out his fellow officers during the Bloody Christmas investigation. It was thanks to Exley that Dick Stensland had been kicked off the force, and rumor had it that if Exley had had his way, Bud himself would've been out of a job. Permanently.

It had been a long night, and the last thing he needed was that snot nosed little shitbird sticking said nose where it didn't belong. Luckily, Lt. Williams was already stepping in to smooth the way.

"It's not your case, Exley, it's mine. In fact, if you hadn't happened to catch the call on your way home, you'd be tucked away in bed right now." Exley's mouth pursed with disapproval as the lieutenant continued. "Look, Ed, you're new to the Bureau. Its going to take you some time to get used to the way things work. In the meantime, why would you want to go around making enemies?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I didn't come to the Bureau to make friends," Exley pointed out stubbornly, adjusting his owlish spectacles as he spoke. "I came to the Bureau to do a job. That job carries with it a responsibility to protect the public and uphold the law." He glanced discreetly at White. "Quite frankly, Lieutenant, I fail to understand how allowing a thug like Bud White to act as judge,jury and executioner-"

Bud had heard enough. He strode over to where Exley was standing and got in his face. "The guy raped a young girl and beat her to death with her own roller-skates," he growled.

Exley stood his ground. "That still doesn't give you the authority or the right-"

"You wanna talk to me about what's right?" Bud's voice was strained and rough, harsh with emotion. "That girl was a child! She had her entire life ahead of her. Is it right that some fuck took that life away?" he snarled, then his face turned hard. "I just did the taxpayers of this city a favor is all."

"How?" Edmund Exley remained unmoved. "By taking the law into your own hands?"

"Jesus, Ed," Lt. Williams flinched. "That's a pretty serious accusation."

"An eye for an eye, Exley. That's _God's_ law." Bud turned and began to walk towards his car. Better to stop before he lost his head and said or did something he'd really regret.

"You murdered a man in cold blood, White," Exley called after him.

"Prove it, you prick," he muttered without breaking stride.

**Bud** leaned into the shower's spray, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles and wash away all evidence of the night before. If only there was a way to make his mind quit going back over it, if only he could stop seeing the girl, Carol, in his head...

Pulling on a clean pair of shorts, he fell back on the unmade bed, reaching reflexively for the bottle of whiskey he knew he'd find beneath the sagging mattress. He swallowed a mouthful and it burned all the way down into his guts. He took a rare second drink and then another, and still he saw the girl...

Eight A.M., and the City of Angels was coming to life.

In a small house in Hollywood, the parents of Carol Johnson clung to each other and began the process of grieving for the loss of their only daughter...

... Dudley Smith set aside his newspaper long enough to receive a kiss on the cheek from the youngest of his four daughters as she left for school...

... Ed Exley sat in his kitchen drinking coffee and wondering when he'd finally begin to get the respect he felt he deserved...

... And, in a small pre-furnished studio apartment, Bud White dreamed his restless dreams of justice and revenge.


End file.
